Thursday, July 23, 2009


Yesterday I had an appointment with the "Therapist". It started off as these things usually do. Because I'm so recalcitrant the session usually consists of him reading my paper diary and occasionaly asking me questions about what's in it. I'd been having a particularly unpleasant few days before the appointment, and I guess after reading one day's entry he decided I was at imminent risk of walking off a building. He started asking me a whole series of questions and assumed that I must really want to end up back in the Oubliette because I couldn't or wouldn't answer him. This sounded to me like saying that if you don't eat your tomatoes at dinner you actually have an implacable lust for tomatoes and their derivatives, aka total bullshit. But I'm not a PhD in psychology, so what do I know?

He made me and my mother sit in his office and have a conversation about "what I wanted and was prepared to do" while he went to inform Psychiatry that they had a readmission pending. He tossed me out and had a conversation with my mom, where she supposedly told him that putting me back into the lockup wouldn't help at all (this is true). It came down to whether or not I could answer "What does the hospital mean for you?" - this was what determined whether I was going to lose a month of my summer to Circle Group with a bunch of 13 year old screamo fans.

I have an appointment today with my substitute psychiatrist (my real one is on vacation). I told her last week that the Celexa is about as useful as a spoonful of dogshit every morning, but apparently being on the 60mg/day (I've been on Celexa for more than two months, just at different doses) for three weeks isn't enough to evaluate whether it's working or not. I have to "communicate" today or it'll be another round of them doing the paperwork to lock me up again. I find the sub-psychiatrist really irritating, and she seems to want to "help me through my stuggles" or something. I got asked "What do your friends call you?". Newsflash: I'm not your friend. You're not my friend. The only reason I tolerate being in the same room with you for more than 90 seconds is that you'd cage me up like an animal again if I didn't.

I hate having people hang this threat over me like the Sword of Damocles. I like how the approach now is "tell us exactly what we want to hear - deviate from it in any way and you're going back to prison". I wish they would all leave me alone. I sure would have less anxiety if they did. But why do what's best for a person when you can harass them instead? And they wonder why people don't like or trust shrinks. You might as well ask why people don't like or trust parole officers. I wonder if these people get some sort of thrill by forcing people to cry in front of them and nearly tossing them down the well. I wouldn't be surprised. They should have been dentists: they'd get paid more to torture people.

No comments:

Post a Comment